


Forgive Me

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Blaise and his mother have an uneasy truce, marred by the ghost of a dead man.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini & Mrs Zabini
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for THC on ff.net

Blaise propped his feet up on the table, small flecks of mud slipping free onto the immaculately polished wood. He regarded his mother's newest husband with a critical eye.

Framed between the 'V' of Blaise's boots, he didn't look like much: same slicked-back hair, the same beady eyes, the same aura of money oozing out of him as the rest of his mother's husbands.

_Her hand held in his, a warm smile, pride filling his chest even as he grinned widely, knees scraped and bleeding._

"And you are?"

Blaise knew he was being rude but couldn't find it in himself to care. He was so tired of this charade, exhausted at the thought of pretending to like another rich man, only to attend his funeral in under a year. At least he looked good in a suit.

"Blaise."

Blaise rolled his head to look at his mother, she was perfectly put together, as always, with a cigarette held loosely in one hand. She raised one immaculate eyebrow, a silent rebuke, tapping the ash into the ashtray. Blaise returned to staring down the man in front of him.

"I am Lord Henry," the man replied, aiming for a serious tone, but his voice was unsure, casting a nervous glance at his mother.

'A Lord?' Blaise mouthed at his mother, shaking his head slowly as she shrugged.

Lord Henry looked nervous, as well he should. "Shall we move into the solar my dear?" he asked, already standing as hate began to blossom in Blaise's heart.

_"Are we all ready?"_

"Yes, _Dad!"_

Blaise flinched, memories ringing loudly in his ears, old ghosts that never seemed to go away, but he tried to push them down anyway. After all, he had a lot of practice. This wasn't his mother's first husband, or even her fifth, after his father. All those men – a few women too – and still the anger burned anew every time. This wasn't even the same house, but his things were everywhere.

His mother gracefully took her new husband's arm as she stood, skirt swishing around her ankles. She wore simple black boots, knife carefully concealed in the heel and Blaise grinned, all teeth.

This man would not last long.

He stood as well, pushing his disgust out in every movement, deliberately disregarding his upbringing as he drained the last dregs of his wine, his mother's lips pursing. She wouldn't scold him, the pain was still new and fresh for her too, despite the passage of time. She knew why he acted the way he did, and he knew why she ensnared new husbands. They had reached an uncomfortable truce, marred by the ghost of a dead man.

Blaise trailed after them, casting one last glance over his shoulder. He knew where _his_ chair was, gaze drawn to it like a magnet, unable to leave the open wound alone. It wasn't remarkable, the wood a light silvery grey, legs scuffed slightly by the repetitive tapping of one foot, small slivers missing from the arms from mindless picking. For just a second, Blaise expected to see his father sitting there, head lost in his daydreams, a warm smile on his face regardless. But there was nothing but an empty chair. Blaise turned and continued to walk after his mother, deliberately scuffing his feet to make her wince.

Blaise brushed past the pair and made a beeline for his favourite chair in the solar, barely even registering the light tap he gave the wooden dog statue in the corner, dust clinging to the tips of his fingers.

"What a lovely statue, my love!" Lord Henry declared, desperate for some attempt to break the icy silence Blaise and his mother were revelling in. Neither were willing to interact with the other, the ghost of a dead man still far too present between them. He moved towards, hand outstretched to pet it-

"Don't touch it."

Blaise knew his voice was too sharp, too angry, reminiscent of a child throwing demands rather than the grown man he was, but he couldn't help it. Anger rose once more, hot and thick as bile, burning him with the urge to punish this stupid man for crossing a line he didn't even know was there.

_"See here, Blaise?"_

_Blaise followed the gesture, gaze landing on the face of a dog. He swayed backwards reflexively, grip tightening on the fabric of his dad's trouser leg, weighing up the urge to cry against the urge to scream._

_"It's a good dog, I promise!"_

_His dad scooped up him, clucking his tongue comfortingly, bouncing Blaise slightly to try and calm the frightened child._

_"It's a family heirloom of mine. It used to belong to my father and my father before him. And it will belong to you. It protects us."_

_Blaise stared at the dog, turning the words over in his head, before wriggling to be put down. Cautiously, dragging his father with him, Blaise walked towards the dog and stared up into its snarling teeth. He stretched up and patted the dog's head, just like he would with the real dogs they would meet in the park._

_"Good job, Blaise! I'm very proud of you!"_

_Blaise laughed, stretching his arms up towards his father, demanding to be picked up once more, which he obliged._

_"You were scared, but you did the right thing. I'm so proud of you."_

"Blaise."

"Mother." Blaise snapped back, realising dimly he was on his feet, hands clenched into fists.

"Henry, dear, please let us go. My son is clearly overtired. I do apologise." Her voice was dripping with sweetness, setting Lord Henry's head spinning from the sudden shift.

The man was only able to stammer out a few broken syllables under the pressure of Lady Zabini's deadly smile as she ushered him out of the room. In the few seconds, before she closed the door behind them, Blaise saw her mask slip minutely. The grief he knew was hidden, becoming bare to the world. And then the door closed and Blaise was left alone.

He sunk back down into the chair, drawing his feet up beneath him as he scrubbed one hand across his face, feeling a wave of tiredness sweep over him. It was too much, too close to the anniversary of his father's death. It still felt like it was yesterday.

_"I have to go, Lillith."_

_"No. You_ want _to go! You want to leave us and for what? To fight for people who will never respect you!"_

_The raised voices woke Blaise from a fitful sleep, the thunderclouds brewing overhead adding to the dim light as he crept down the stairs, pausing on the landing to watch his parents argue. They never argued — not like this._

_"It is the right thing to do."_

_Blaise's mother responded with a string of curses, tears spilling down her cheeks, her hair loose and tangled._

_"I will always come back to you, my love. You and Blaise."_

_His father kissed his mother quickly, wiping away her tears with one thumb as he drew her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist._

_"No decorating while I'm gone," his father chuckled into the top of his mother's head. "I know how you are."_

_"I will paint your chair mustard yellow," his mother threatened, an old playful threat she would never follow through on, her voice wobbling._

_"I'll be back soon."_

And then he hadn't.

Blaise came back to himself slowly, thoughts sluggish and half drenched in memory. He could almost feel the phantom hand in his, calluses littering the fingers and palms in a pattern as unique as the whorls in the wood he would carve. He was sitting beneath the dining room table, back against a support and legs stretched underneath his father's chair.

He was too big to sit like this, back bent uncomfortably, wood jamming into his spine, but it was a small comfort as he sat and waited for his father to return, yet knowing that he never would.


End file.
